


How Tasteless

by toyhto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood Drinking, Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, No Mary Morstan, No one wants to die it's just a bad situation, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28679592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: Sherlock gets infected with a vampire zombie virus. John refuses to kill him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, read the tags and note that this is dark and I'm not using Archive Warnings! About the dubious consent, there's not actual non-con content in this story, it's more like no one's exactly in their right mind. Also, this is Post-Reichenbach story but Sherlock has already come back and John has forgiven him and everything has gone back to normal (with no Mary).
> 
> I have been deeply inspired by [To The Last Drop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151680/chapters/2334900) by bendingsignpost. I read it years ago, remembered reading something very disturbing and still oddly fascinating, read it again, still loved it, still didn't know why exactly (it's GREAT but there's a lot of blood and I'm not sure why I want to read it, but I certainly do). Anyway, that story is probably the reason why I'm imagining Sherlock, John and a virus that causes the person to turn into a vampire of sort.
> 
> I've already written this story and am going to post it in three parts, two 'chapters' every time.
> 
> I haven't written Johnlock in English for years, so this is exciting. Also, [my tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com).

SHERLOCK  
  
  
  
It’s Sunday morning. John woke up fifty minutes ago, spent twenty minutes in bed, five brushing his teeth, ten in shower and is now finally in the kitchen, making breakfast. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, reading the newspaper. John looks tired again, doesn’t like the new job but refuses to say it out loud.  
  
“What’re you smiling at?”  
  
Sherlock turns to the front page. “Nothing.” He looks at the page. He looks at it again, then looks at John, who stops chewing the toast.  
  
“What?”  
  
“The virus,” Sherlock says, his voice coming out perfectly calm. Good. He’d hate to freak out over something as boring as pandemic. “It’s in London now.”  
  
“Lockdown?” John asks, his voice faltering just a little. John is perfect company. Perfect in any circumstances, of course, but especially perfect when there’s new virus spreading, the sort that alters your brain so that you start feeding on human blood. Vampire zombie virus, the media calls it. How tasteless.  
  
But John is here. They’re going to be alright.  
  
“Yeah,” Sherlock says. “Starting now.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
 _Day 27  
71 new infections in the London area this week. Growth of 21.5%. Running out of tea. John grumpy. Almost hit me when I suggested we’d go for a walk.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Day 63  
Tried to shoot a bird through the window. John stopped me. He’s been handsy. I asked about it. He pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about. Then didn’t touch me for seven hours thirty-three minutes. I took a shower, came to the kitchen with just a towel. He squeezed my shoulder. Mycroft sent us food with a drone again. Ridiculous. John says I can’t shoot birds through the window. 91 new deaths today. That we know of.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Day 111  
  
John is angry. I don’t know about what. Maybe not because of me. But why the hell not. Nothing else happens to him. I followed him all day yesterday, to figure it out. He just got angrier. Grabbed my shoulders and shook me. I grabbed his wrists but he let go. Must punch him in the face some time soon. My mother called us. I think John almost cried yesterday. Hid in the bathroom. We went for a small walk yesterday. Two blocks. The risk of obtaining the virus something like 1.8-3.1%. Perfectly acceptable. John said no but followed me anyway. I don’t know what he thinks about me. Sometimes he looks at me when he thinks I can’t see. Then again there’s no one else to look at._  
  
  
**  
  
  
 _Day 132  
  
Woke up to John crying. Went to his room. He punched me, then hugged me. My shirt got wet. He had sex 161 days ago. Masturbates infrequently. Approximately 5 times a week. No changes observed during lockdown except infrequency of the habit increasing. Touched my hair yesterday. Lack of sex with other humans a possible reason for changes in behaviour. Deaths declining in the area. But yesterday we saw a woman eating another woman across the street. Seemed more unpleasant than when described in the news.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Day 147  
  
Called him sweetheart yesterday. He didn’t respond. Keeps calling me Sherlock. Doesn’t talk much. Stressed and agitated. We have to go for a walk today. The growth of cases in the area increasing again. The risk something like 3.8-16.2%. Acceptable. Else he loses his mind locked up in here. Can’t let that happen. Might be in love with him. Whatever that means. Want physical contact all the time. Touched him yesterday with no reason. ~~Might want sex~~ I want everything.  
_


	2. Chapter 2

JOHN  
  
  
  
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. This was stupid. This was the stupidest fucking idea he’s ever agreed on. A walk around the block, the risk of getting infected something like… what, fifteen percent? And he had agreed. He had fucking agreed to that, because he’s starting to feel like _he’s_ the one who’s going to be shooting pigeons through the window, or maybe himself, but no, no, he wouldn’t do that, things aren’t that bad, it’s just a lockdown, and he’s got Sherlock, he’d never do that to Sherlock, he’d never -  
  
“John,” Sherlock shouts, and John turns around and shoots the girl who has sunk her teeth into Sherlock’s arm. A clear shot in the head, the girl drops onto the pavement, doesn’t move. Sherlock is still saying John’s name.  
  
“It’s alright,” John says and grabs Sherlock’s shoulders, keeps Sherlock from falling. Or maybe he’s keeping himself from falling. There’s a loud whistling sound in his ears. It reminds him of Afghanistan, the sound of the machine guns, the grenades, men dying, and of how he got through that in the end. Somehow. “You’re alright,” he says to Sherlock. He’s holding Sherlock pretty tight in his arms but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind. Sherlock’s arm is dripping blood but the wound doesn’t seem too bad. Really, it’s just a small wound. A few stitches. Nothing more. It could be nothing more.  
  
“She bit me,” Sherlock says. He’s stopped repeating John’s name, which feels like a loss for some reason. Now his voice is calm and low as if he’s saying he forgot the milk. “John, she bit me in the arm.”  
  
“Yeah, I noticed,” John says. He can see their front door. He drapes his arm around Sherlock’s back and drags Sherlock forward, and Sherlock certainly doesn’t help. “Come on, let’s go home.”  
  
“I’m dead,” Sherlock says.  
  
_Bloody fucking hell._ “No, you aren’t, you idiot, you’re fucking talking to me. I’m a fucking doctor, you know, don’t you think I’d recognise a dead man. No, you aren’t dead, but you have to _walk,_ Sherlock, I can’t carry you, you’re too fucking heavy –“  
  
Sherlock laughs. The sound is terrible. “You can’t take me back to the flat.”  
  
“Of course I’m going to take you back to the flat. We were supposed to watch another Miss Marple tonight.”  
  
“God, I hate those movies.”  
  
“No, you don’t. Come on, Sherlock, _walk_ –“  
  
“Hey,” Sherlock says, squeezing John’s shoulder. “You can’t take me back to the flat, because I’ll just infect you, and then we’ll both die. And you can’t let me go, because I’ll attack someone sooner or later.” Sherlock takes in a small breath. John can feel it against his side, he’s pressing Sherlock so close. “And besides, this is my best coat. I don’t want to get it wet and I think it’s going to rain soon. John, you have to kill me now.”  
  
He closes his eyes. Just for a second. This isn’t happening. They’re back in their flat. Everything’s normal. Everything’s… not normal, since there’s the pandemic and the lockdown and everything is wrong, but they’re safe inside and nothing bad is going to happen to them personally. They’re going to survive.  
  
“John.”  
  
“No,” he says and glances at Sherlock. He’s pretty sure Sherlock knows that he’s got the gun in his right pocket. He’s also pretty sure Sherlock would shoot himself. But not immediately. He’s got at least a minute to talk Sherlock over. “They’re trying to find the cure. Every fucking doctor in the whole world is trying to find the cure. What if they succeed tomorrow? Or today? Tonight?”  
  
“That’s highly improbable, statistically speaking.”  
  
“But possible.”  
  
“Barely,” Sherlock says and lets go of John’s shoulder. John grabs him tighter, but he doesn’t pull away and doesn’t try to take the gun. Instead, he places his hand on the back of John’s neck and… and… “Don’t cry. Your face goes all weird when you cry. Red and puffy.”  
  
“That happens to everyone. Sherlock, we’re going to go home. You have to listen to me. I’m a doctor.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve been infected by incurable vampire zombie virus. It’s ridiculous, really. I though my death would be more… stylish. Like, maybe I’d die in a gunfight.”  
  
“I would never let you die in a gunfight.”  
  
Sherlock swallows. “I know. So, it has to be like this. Sorry I’ve been yelling at you lately.”  
  
“No,” John says, “no, don’t apologise, you git, it’s going to take the whole day if you start –“  
  
“I have to tell you something,” Sherlock says and touches his cheek.  
  
He tries to drag Sherlock towards home. It’s impossible. Sherlock is bigger and doesn’t want to go. But he’s not going to give up. He’s not going to let Sherlock -  
  
“John.”  
  
“Shut the fuck up.”  
  
“I like you,” Sherlock says, his hand reaching to John’s right pocket. “A lot. More than I’ve ever liked anyone else. I don’t know what that means. I just wanted to say –“  
  
John punches him in the face.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s not exactly easy, getting unconscious Sherlock to their front door, and then through the hallway and up the stairs to their apartment. But at least Sherlock isn’t trying to stop him now. And he manages to push Sherlock through the door before they both crumble to the floor, Sherlock’s bloody arm on his chest, Sherlock’s face against his neck. He breathes in. A few seconds. Just for a few seconds, he’s going to lie here under Sherlock, who’s knocked out and bleeding from the arm and practically a time bomb.  
  
So, the thing is, Sherlock is right. John should have shot Sherlock at the yard. That would have been perfectly safe for everyone, except Sherlock, of course, who would be dead then, and that’s exactly why John couldn’t do it. But unfortunately Sherlock’s going to be dead anyway, unless someone figures out the cure, and that hasn’t yet happened and probably isn’t going to happen in time for Sherlock. They only have days. Two, three, or four. Five, if they’re very lucky. And Sherlock’s going to develop the thirst for blood before that. Some studies claim that the thirst begins within twenty-four hours from the infection. Some claim there’s more variation, and some suggest that the thirst begins right away, only the infected is considerably better at controlling it in the beginning. That makes sense, too. The virus slowly erodes the victim’s mind. It doesn’t happen immediately.  
  
They have time.  
  
He drags Sherlock to the kitchen, takes a deep breath, washes his hands, washes his face, dries his face with the kitchen towel – gross but who the fuck cares – drinks a glass of water, then somehow manages to lift Sherlock onto the kitchen table, only the table is too small or Sherlock is too tall, the goddamn bastard, so his feet are hanging over the edge. It looks totally undignified. John should take a picture. He should send it to Greg. Greg would laugh.  
  
Oh, god, what’s he thinking about?  
  
He takes the shoes off from Sherlock’s feet. But it’s worse somehow, seeing Sherlock’s feet in nothing but white socks, one of which has a hole in it. Normally, Sherlock would never accept a hole in his sock. Only during pandemic. John blinks and blinks and gets himself another glass of water, and then he ignores Sherlock’s feet and focuses on Sherlock’s arm instead. It’s still bleeding. He puts on his gloves and fetches his stuff. At least he can take care of the wound. At least he can do that. Sherlock’s not going to fucking bleed to death, not while John Watson is around.  
  
He’s just started stitching the wound, when Sherlock blinks and opens his eyes. At first Sherlock looks confused. Then he looks terrified. And then he looks… then he just looks at John, because John has a hand on his throat. Just to get his attention.  
  
“If you kill yourself,” John says, “I promise to you, I will do the same. And I’m not lying.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says slowly. “I know you wouldn’t.” He’s usually so much better at lying. John almost lets go of him, just because it’s too fucking unfair that Sherlock is so scared he can’t even _lie_ properly.  
  
“You don’t know that,” John says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. He’s been in goddamn _war._ He can handle the looming death. “I’ve thought about it before. When you last died. You remember that.”  
  
“I wasn’t really dead,” Sherlock says, but his eyes are sharp and intent. And scared. “And you wouldn’t have done it.”  
  
“You can’t know that,” John says, “because _I_ don’t know. I planned it. I thought I might do it. So, don’t test me now. Don’t die on me. Because if you die on me, you’re going to do it not knowing if I’m going to follow.”  
  
“If I stay here,” Sherlock says, his voice small now, “I’m going to kill you.”  
  
“Not right now.”  
  
“In a few days. Approximately in two point –“  
  
“I’m a fucking _soldier_ , Sherlock. I can protect myself.”  
  
“…but wouldn’t it be easier to shoot me now?”  
  
John shakes his head.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says. “What’re you _doing_? You have me lying on the kitchen table. You’re stitching the wound even though you _know_ I’m going to die.”  
  
“The last time,” John says and pulls his hand away from Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock flinches. Maybe he forgot John was touching him there. Maybe he forgot it was supposed to be a threat. _Try to kill yourself and I’ll strangle you._ Not at all paradoxical. “The last time,” he says and gets back to stitching, “I thought you were dead, but you weren’t.”  
  
“That’s not how it’s going to go this time.”  
  
“You don’t know how it’s going to go this time.”  
  
“I can calculate the probabilities,” Sherlock says, his voice barely audible, “with the certainty of 95 percent, which by the way is good enough for science.”  
  
“Stop talking.”  
  
“It should be good enough for you.”  
  
“I’m not letting you die,” John says and clears his throat. “I’m just not. I’m going to keep you alive. It’s my decision and you don’t have a fucking say in it. I’m keeping you alive and you don’t have the fucking right to take that away from me, not after everything I’ve done for you.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, “John, _think_ –“  
  
John sticks the needle particularly hard through Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock flinches and then goes quiet, thank fuck.  
  
“Great,” John says. “This will just take a minute, and then we can have tea.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“John?”  
  
John looks up from his cup of tea. He’s sitting in his armchair, Sherlock is sitting on the sofa. Everything’s like it’s always been. “Yeah?”  
  
Sherlock is staring at him with a cup of tea in his hand. “I don’t think I can drink this.”  
  
“What? I didn’t put sugar – _fuck._ ”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“But you… surely you _can…_ ”  
  
“I…” Sherlock says, then slowly sips his tea. It looks almost comical. It looks as if Sherlock is trying to drink… blood, or something. “I can’t,” Sherlock says.  
  
“But you’ve got to eat something.”  
  
“I don’t think I’m going to. Anymore.”  
  
John swallows. “Water. Just plain water. Just try… I’ll get you a glass. Don’t get up, I can –“  
  
“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I can _walk._ There’s nothing wrong with my legs, I’m just a vampire.”  
  
“That’s not funny.”  
  
“It is a little bit funny.”  
  
“No, it’s not. Sherlock, you can’t –“  
  
“It’s my dying wish. Just let me make bad jokes. I swear they won’t last for long.”  
  
John swallows and swallows and swallows, and also apparently he follows when Sherlock goes to the kitchen, pours the perfectly fine tea down the sink and fills the mug with water. John opens his mouth but can’t make himself say anything, so he just stares at Sherlock’s back as Sherlock raises the glass and sips of it. Sherlock swallows. And shivers.  
  
“Bad?”  
  
“Not as bad as tea,” Sherlock says. “But… barely drinkable.”  
  
“Drink a little more. While you can.”  
  
“John, I don’t really think it’s going to make any difference. If I’m going to die from thirst, it’s not because I’m not getting water.”  
  
“You have to drink anyway,” John says, steps next to Sherlock, takes the mug and refills it under the tap. Sherlock looks at his hands. He gives the mug back to Sherlock and Sherlock raises it to his lips. “Drink.”  
  
Sherlock drinks. Just a little.  
  
John wants to cry. But he can’t. It’s too fucking early for crying. They still have days. Plenty of days. Four or five. No less than three, in any case. Unless Sherlock betrays him and kills himself.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says and touches his arm so lightly he can barely feel it. “It really doesn’t matter.”  
  
He straightens his back and steps away from Sherlock _._ “I thought we were going to watch Miss Marple.”  
  
“I hate Miss Marple,” Sherlock says in a gentle voice.  
  
“Yeah, but you like me. And I like Miss Marple.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“I want to watch a movie together. I want you to yell at the television and call them idiots.”  
  
“Sure,” Sherlock says. “We can do that. But you should probably chain me to something first.”  
  
John shakes his head. “I have my gun.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
So, this is how it’s going to be, then. He’s sitting in his armchair and Sherlock is sitting on the sofa and Miss Marple on the television isn’t clever enough for Sherlock. Everything’s back to normal, only Sherlock fails to actually sound irritated and John is holding his gun.  
  
They watch two movies before John realises he’s hungry. He doesn’t know if he ought to laugh or cry and he kind of wants to do both. Instead, he stands up, tells Sherlock to sit still, takes his gun and goes to the kitchen. They’ve got a lot of food. Mycroft has made certain that whatever happens to them, they aren’t going to die from hunger. Not that Mycroft should be worried about that any longer. They’re going to eat each other in the end.  
  
No. _No._ He shouldn’t think like that. He opens the can of tomato soup and heats it in the microwave oven. He hates tomato soup these days. He hates this flat and he hates his own face and he hates the fucking pandemic and he hates the virus and he hates that apparently his hands are shaking now. When he turns to look at Sherlock, Sherlock is still on the sofa, looking as relaxed as a loaded gun.  
  
“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“No,” John says, takes his soup and a glass of water and goes back to the living room. The soup tastes of nothing. The spoon clatters against the bowl. He ignores it. And he ignores the way Sherlock is looking at him.  
  
“I’ll do it, John. Just give me the gun. You don’t have to watch. You don’t even have to hear it. I’ll go out and walk down a few blocks first.”  
  
“For fuck’s –“  
  
“There’s nothing else we can do.”  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be a genius or something?” John asks, his mouth full of soup. He feels like he might choke on it. “You can fix this.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says. “Sure, I’m a genius. I’m amazing. You know that. You’re my biggest fan.”  
  
“I’m not your fan, Sherlock, I’m your…“  
  
“But I can’t fix this. I’m sorry. I can’t.”  
  
“…I’m your _friend._ And do you fucking think I’d let you do it yourself? I wouldn’t. I _wouldn’t_.”  
  
“I don’t want you to see me dead.”  
  
_Again._ “No one’s going to shoot you,” John says. “But if someone was going to… if someone had to… it’d be me, Sherlock, I’d do it for you, so you wouldn’t have to…” _Push the gun into his mouth, his front finger steady on the trigger, push the gun to his throat until he could feel his pulse against the barrel…_ He did that once. When he thought Sherlock was dead. He wasn’t going to… he’s pretty sure he wasn’t going to actually kill himself, he was just so tired, so fucking tired of being so sad and broken. And so alone. “I’d do it,” he says now. “You wouldn’t have to be alone.”  
  
“That’s nice of you,” Sherlock says.  
  
John glances at him.  
  
“I don’t want anyone else to shoot me,” Sherlock says in a quiet voice. “Only you. I’d let you do it.”  
  
“We aren’t going to do it, though.”  
  
“Of course we are.”  
  
“Maybe we should call Mycroft. Maybe they’ve figured out the cure and it’s just not on the news yet. But Mycroft will know. If we call Mycroft –“  
  
“If we call Mycroft, he’s going to send a helicopter to take me to somewhere where I can’t hurt anyone.”  
  
John swallows, and swallows. “Maybe that’d be –“  
  
“And the ending’s going to be the same. I’m just going to be alone. Someone else is going to shoot me in the head eventually.”  
  
He closes his eyes. “Don’t talk like that.”  
  
“Like what? _John._ ”  
  
“We aren’t calling Mycroft.” Oh, god, he’s going to have to shoot Sherlock. In a few days. When Sherlock begins to lose his mind. “I’m not letting him take you away.”  
  
“…thank you.”  
  
“Don’t thank me. You don’t know what I’m going to –“  
  
“You’re going to put your gun against my head,” Sherlock says in the softest voice John’s ever heard. “Over my ear, probably. So that I can’t see it. My left air, because you’re facing me. And you look me in the eyes. And I tell you how much it means to me that you are… that you have been… everything. And then you –“  
  
“No,” John says and stands up. The bowl falls from his hands to the floor and shatters. The soup gets spread on the carpet. It looks a bit like blood. “No,” he says and goes to the kitchen, “no, no, _no_ ,” but he can’t go further away, because he can’t leave Sherlock, because if he does, Sherlock might leave and find a way to kill himself before the virus can. “I can’t believe this is happening to us,” John says to the sink.  
  
“It has to happen to someone,” Sherlock says from the living room. “John?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Let’s play with cards.”  
  
“… _what?_ ”  
  
“I’ve always known I would beat you. But I’ve never had a chance to prove it.”  
  
“I’m not really in the mood, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock is quiet for so long that John gets worried. But when he glances over his shoulder, Sherlock is still there, still alive. Still as much in his right mind as he ever was. “What’re you in the mood for, then?” Sherlock asks. “A cup of tea? A nice walk? A mutual suicide?”  
  
_Fucking hell._ “Alright. Let’s play.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
John keeps losing. Of course he keeps losing. No one’s fucking surprised. He can’t think, not at all, can’t even stop his hands from shaking. And Sherlock, on the other hand, looks as concentrated as ever. It’s not surprising at all that Sherlock wins, no, the surprising part is that they’re playing strip poker now.  
  
“Tell me again why we’re doing this,” John says after taking off his trousers. He lost his pullover a while ago, and then his t-shirt.  
  
“Because it’s fun.”  
  
“Are you having fun?”  
  
Sherlock glances at him. “Yes.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes. I always wondered what the fuss was. About this. Why teenagers think this is exciting.” Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Turns out they’re right.”  
  
“Teenagers?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I don’t have many clothes left,” John says, trying to sound as calm as possible, but it’s been a long day. “You can’t keep winning me, you know, or I’m going to end up naked.”  
  
Sherlock wins him again.  
  
“I’m not really going to get naked for you, you know,” he says and takes off one sock.  
  
“Of course not,” Sherlock says.  
  
A few minutes later, John takes off the other sock. Then he looks at Sherlock, and at his cards on the table, and at Sherlock again, and doesn’t pick up his cards. Sherlock doesn’t tell him to. He’s cold and shivering a little and it’s a fucking delight to be shivering from the cold and not from terror.  
  
“How’re you feeling?”  
  
“Not thirsty,” Sherlock says, watching him. “How about you?”  
  
“It’s a little chilly here.”  
  
“You should’ve been better at playing.”  
  
“No one can beat Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
“…true.”  
  
“You’re an asshole. You know that, right?”  
  
“Of course. You’ve also known that for some time now.”  
  
“I’ve always known that.”  
  
“And still, here you are,” Sherlock says. For a second he looks confused, then it passes. “Aren’t we playing anymore?”  
  
“No, I don’t think so.”  
  
Sherlock puts his cards aside. “I was winning.”  
  
“I noticed.”  
  
“Do you want to put your clothes back on?”  
  
“No, I’m fine,” John says and crosses his legs. Then he clears his throat. “Maybe I should. I’m getting cold.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sherlock says slowly. “We don’t want you to get cold and catch something. Like a flu. It’d be terribly inconvenient if you had a flu and I couldn’t heat up your soup for you, because I’m a vampire.”  
  
“You aren’t a vampire yet.”  
  
“That’s a philosophical question.”  
  
“I thought you thought philosophy was waste of time.”  
  
“It’s not,” Sherlock says. “Especially not now. John, you’re tired.”  
  
“…and?”  
  
“It’s getting late. You’ve got to sleep.”  
  
“I’m not going to _sleep._ ”  
  
“This is going to take days. You need to keep your head straight, you know, so that you can still stop me from attacking you.”  
  
“Yeah. Sure. But –“  
  
“Just sleep for a few hours. I’ll be here.”  
  
John takes a deep breath. He doesn’t think he can sleep, but it must be close to midnight already, and Sherlock is right. He can’t stay up until the end, or else he’s not going to be of much use. “Promise?”  
  
“Promise,” Sherlock says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
John falls asleep, wakes up, blinks at the ceiling, then remembers – – – and climbs out of the bed, almost falls onto his face, rushes down the stairs, no clothes on, just boxers, for some reason he didn’t put his socks back on before going to bed, even though he always sleeps with socks on, cold feet, lovers sometimes think it’s funny, Sherlock would think it’d be funny, definitely, Sherlock would -  
  
Sherlock shifts on the sofa, opens his eyes and looks at John.  
  
_Thank god._  
  
“I’m alright,” Sherlock says, his voice hoarse. Possibly from sleeping. Or maybe he’s faking it. To make John believe he’s slept. “Still alive. Still barely a vampire. Go back to sleep, John.”  
  
John shakes his head.  
  
“A few more hours. Then you can put on your clothes and come downstairs and we can play strip poker again.”  
  
“No,” he says, “no, we aren’t going to do that. Just fucking say it if you want to see my dick.” Then he turns and goes back upstairs. It takes him forever to fall asleep again. But the whole apartment is silent, there’s no sound of footsteps, not Sherlock walking a circle, he never bothered to try to do it quietly, anyway, the bastard… or, he never bothered, _before_. Might do it now. In case he doesn’t want John to hear that he’s going to… But John has his gun here, in the bedroom, under his pillow. Sherlock can’t get it without waking him up. Not a chance.  
  
He listens to the sound of the front door opening and closing, but it never comes. Sherlock doesn’t leave. Sherlock is still here, probably on the sofa. John should sleep a little. And besides, Sherlock promised. It’s not exactly clear what a promise means to Sherlock Holmes, but it has to mean something, right? After all this time they’ve spent together.  
  
He keeps his eyes closed and listens for the proof of Sherlock breaking that promise, but it doesn’t come, and then suddenly he’s in an amusement park with Sherlock, so he must be dreaming. They’re in the Ferris wheel. He takes Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock doesn’t say anything. They go up, and they go down, and on the ground everything is turning red like tomato soup on the floor.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Don’t look at me like that.”  
  
“I’m not looking at you,” John says. He’s pretending to make breakfast in the kitchen. He’s making it for two.  
  
Sherlock snorts.  
  
“Like what? I’m looking at you like what?”  
  
“Like I’m your patient.”  
  
He closes his eyes for a second. “Sherlock –“  
  
“And you _were_ looking at me,” Sherlock says, “you’ve been looking at me the whole morning. You didn’t even go to the bathroom without checking on me first. You didn’t take a piss before you had had a good look on me. And now you’re… you’re frying eggs, and you still keep glancing at me.”  
  
John grits his teeth together. “I think that’s understandable.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, it’s _understandable._ I’m just making observations.”  
  
“Well, don’t.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I’m tired and I don’t really appreciate it when you make me sound so… as if I’m obsessed with you or something.”  
  
“…of course you aren’t _obsessed_ with me. I thought that was obvious. I’m the one who’s obsessed.”  
  
John laughs. It sounds wrong.  
  
“Don’t laugh. You’re hurting my feelings.”  
  
“I’m hurting your feelings?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
_Oh, god._ “What feelings?”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says slowly, “just eat your breakfast.”  
  
“You’re going to eat, too.”  
  
“No, I’m not.”  
  
“I’m your doctor and I say that you eat.”  
  
Sherlock sighs, stands up and walks to him, stops behind his left shoulder, so close that he can smell Sherlock’s… he can smell Sherlock. He can also feel Sherlock’s breathing against his left air.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, “if you make me eat that, I’m going to vomit.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“Haven’t you read the articles? About the virus?”  
  
John bites his lip. During the first weeks… no, the first months of the pandemic, he read everything he could. Maybe he was trying to figure it out, to understand what was happening, to make it easier to comprehend. Then he got tired and gave up. He’s not going to solve this. Someone is, somewhere, sooner or later. The scientists are going to develop a vaccine. Or a cure. Preferably both. Everything will go back to normal. But he’s not going to have a part in that. He’s just an ordinary military doctor, averagely clever, with a brilliant friend and feet that get cold easily.  
  
And now he doesn’t care. About anything. Anything except that somehow, he needs to believe that Sherlock might still get through this. That they both could. This can’t be the end. He didn’t have time to…  
  
“Yeah, I’ve read the articles,” he says. “But even if the virus is altering your digestive system –“  
  
“It is.”  
  
“They don’t know how quickly that happens exactly. You might still be able to get nutrients from –“  
  
“Fried eggs,” Sherlock says, looking over John’s shoulder. It’s unfair that he’s so tall. “I think not.”  
  
“Don’t be stubborn, this is really not the time –“  
  
“Fine! _Fine._ I’ll try. I’ll eat your fried eggs if that’s what you want.”  
  
“Thank you,” John says.  
  
Sherlock eats maybe a quarter of what John puts on his plate and sips his tea before putting the cup aside. Ten minutes later, he says _excuse me,_ goes to the bathroom and throws up. John follows him. He’s kneeling on the floor, grabbing the edges of the toilet seat. His knuckles are white and his face is white and when John comes close enough to have a look at what’s in the toilet now, there’s a little blood with the mess that used to be the eggs.  
  
“Sorry,” he says.  
  
“No,” Sherlock says. He’s breathing hard and shivering. “Don’t. It was a… reasonable request.”  
  
John opens his mouth, closes it and carefully removes Sherlock’s hands from gripping the toilet seat. He flushes, closes the lid and sits down on the floor next to Sherlock. “I just don’t want this to happen.”  
  
“Yeah, me neither,” Sherlock says. He looks tired and not completely sober, but maybe that’s what being infected with a vampire virus does to a person.  
  
“How’re you feeling?” John asks. “Any symptoms? Do you want to –“  
  
“Cut your throat? Not particularly.”  
  
“Great.”  
  
“Yeah, brilliant.”  
  
“You should take a shower.”  
  
“What? Don’t you think that I smell good?”  
  
John shakes his head slowly. Sherlock smiles at him and then goes serious again.  
  
“ _You_ smell good,” Sherlock says in a quiet voice. “You smell lovely, John. Like…”  
  
“Like dinner,” John says. His voice comes out thin. At least he doesn’t move away from Sherlock. He supposes he’s going to be doing that, soon.  
  
“Not quite. But something like…”  
  
“Something like that.” John clears his throat. “I’ve got a new deodorant. Maybe that’s it.”  
  
“How can you have a new deodorant?” Sherlock asks, leaning closer to him. He forces himself to stay still.  
  
“Mycroft sent it. With our groceries, last week. There were two of them. I guess he calculated we’d be running out.”  
  
“So, Mycroft’s going to decide what we smell like from now on,” Sherlock says. “That’s not a nice thought. Well, what is it?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The deodorant. What’s the name? _Nice and Bloody?_ ”  
  
“ _A Drop of Blood_.”  
  
“That’s better.”  
  
“We shouldn’t be joking about this.”  
  
“What else can we do?” Sherlock asks and takes a deep breath. “I should get up. I need to sit.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“In the toilet.”  
  
John looks at him.  
  
“And you should probably get out,” Sherlock says and touches John’s shoulder. It’s not a pat, it’s not a caress either. Maybe Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s doing. “Unless you want to look at me taking a …”  
  
“Taking a shit. Alright.”  
  
“Alright?”  
  
“I don’t need to see that.” John helps Sherlock to stand up and leaves the bathroom. He goes to the kitchen. Apparently he’s only eaten half of his breakfast. He finishes the plate, then finishes the cup of lukewarm tea, then starts to think that maybe Sherlock is going to do something stupid in the locked bathroom. There’re both of their razors in the cabinet. But if Sherlock wanted to get actual damage done with one of them, he’d have to… well, it would be difficult. And it would take a while for Sherlock to bleed out. Surely he knows John would stop him. Hospitals are in chaos right now, everything is in chaos, but Mycroft would get Sherlock somewhere, of course, only then Mycroft would also _know_ and would keep Sherlock locked up until…  
  
“What?” Sherlock asks, stepping out of the bathroom. “Don’t look so shocked. What did you think I’d do in there, slit my wrists?”  
  
John swallows.  
  
“Come on. It’d take ages with the razors. Terribly undignified, I refuse to die like that. Talking about which, I’m surprised Mycroft hasn’t send us new ones. It’s getting difficult to shave with those things. Also, you’re getting sloppy. You missed a spot when you last shaved. I wasn’t going to say anything, but since we’re being honest now –“  
  
“How was your shit?” John asks. “Regular?”  
  
Sherlock tilts his head to the side, looking at him. “Really?”  
  
“I’m your doctor, remember? You’re supposed to answer my questions.”  
  
“Alright,” Sherlock says, walks to the sofa with unsteady steps and sits down. “I suppose I’ve got a bit of diarrhea.”  
  
John nods.  
  
“Happy?”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“Terribly sorry about that. John, do you think I could…”  
  
“What?” John asks, goes to the living room but doesn’t know what to do. He could sit in his armchair. But it’s too far away from Sherlock. “Do you need something? Just tell me.”  
  
“I think…” Sherlock clears his throat, looking a little shocked. “I think I want to take a nap.”  
  
“A nap?”  
  
“No, not _want_ , but…”  
  
“You need rest.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Well,” John says. There’s something stuck in his throat. He swallows but it doesn’t go away, and Sherlock lays down on the sofa, looking at him as if _this_ is what they’re going to get worried about, Sherlock wanting to sleep. Well, it’s a little surprising. Not one of Sherlock’s strongest suits, usually, resting. “Do you want me to get out of the room?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, staring at him.  
  
“Are you sure? Because you’ve told me sometimes that I breathe loudly.”  
  
“Still bitter?” Sherlock asks and closes his eyes. “Don’t worry. I want to listen to it. I just need to… just for a moment.”  
  
“You can sleep as long as you like,” he says, forcing his voice to stay light. He hopes Sherlock appreciates the effort. “And then we’ll watch Miss Marple again.”  
  
“Oh, god, no,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Oh, god, yes,” John says and covers Sherlock with a blanket. Sherlock’s eyelids flicker and he sighs when John brushes the hair from his face.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Sherlock sleeps for four hours. John sits in the armchair, pretending to read, but after a while he leaves the book in his lap and just watches Sherlock. It’s the middle of the day and the sunlight is coming through the windows. There’s dust everywhere. They should have cleaned before this happened. Now there’s no chance. He’s not going to… well, he’s probably not going to do anything except worry about Sherlock until everything’s over. In one way or another, because there _has_ to be more than one way for this to end.  
  
When Sherlock wakes up, at first he doesn’t seem to remember where he is. John looks at him while he blinks and looks around, flinches and keeps blinking.  
  
“How’re you feeling?”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, glancing at him with unfocused eyes. “John, I don’t think I… _curtains_.”  
  
“Sorry,” he says, stands up and goes to close the curtains. At least the dust disappears. “Sensitive to light?”  
  
“Headache,” Sherlock says. “For how long –“  
  
“You slept for four hours. Almost four hours.”  
  
“ _God._ ”  
  
“Well, I suppose you didn’t get much sleep last night.”  
  
Sherlock takes a deep breath. John stops next to the sofa. Maybe he should give Sherlock some space. Sherlock just woke up. And it’s not if John can actually _do_ anything about this, no, so he could as well go to the kitchen and let Sherlock be for a second -  
  
He sits down on the edge of the sofa. It’s the best he can do when Sherlock’s sprawled like that over the cushions. He places his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and it trembles. Or maybe his hand is shaking.  
  
“Am I hot?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“Yes,” John says and pats his thigh, but very gently. “Yes, you are. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. I thought you were clever.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says. He’s smiling, but there’s something else in his eyes, something John can’t read.  
  
“Oh, you mean fever? I didn’t guess that.” He leans closer until he can place the flat of his palm against Sherlock’s forehead. “Yeah.”  
  
“Yeah? How bad?”  
  
“I’m not a thermometer. Do you feel like you’ve got fever?”  
  
“I don’t know. I feel…” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I feel very weird. But cold. But also like… like I’ve been sweating. A lot.”  
  
John touches the front of Sherlock’s t-shirt. “Want a shower?”  
  
Sherlock blinks. “I don’t think I can…”  
  
“A bath?”  
  
Sherlock nods.  
  
“Now?”  
  
Sherlock nods again. “I suppose I’m not getting any better.”  
  
“Of course you are,” John lies and then helps Sherlock up. Sherlock smells of sweat and something unfamiliar that he doesn’t want to think about, because it’s almost as if Sherlock is changing into someone else, and he’s not going to think about that. That’s not happening. This is still _Sherlock._  
  
John drapes his arm around Sherlock’s back and keeps Sherlock’s arm over his own shoulder. They get to the bathroom easily enough, only Sherlock is pressing his nose against the bare skin on John’s neck. It’s a little distracting.  
  
“Don’t bite me,” John says, and Sherlock clears his throat and doesn’t say anything. No more false promises, then.  
  
He draws the bath and helps Sherlock undress without thinking anything at all. He’s a doctor. And he’s helped Sherlock undress before, when Sherlock’s been drugged or hurt and has needed him. There’s no reason why it should feel different now. He makes Sherlock sit on the closed toilet seat and tucks Sherlock’s boxers down his thighs, throws them in the laundry pile with everything else and wonders if they’re ever going to do laundry again. He’s not going to miss it. Sherlock probably is. Sherlock is a goddamn idiot about laundry, separates the clothes by the colour, as if that’s going to make a difference, and doesn’t let John touch his laundry, not even to hang it out, says that John does it wrong. John doesn’t do it wrong, John is an adult who can hang out laundry perfectly fine, thank you very much, only right now he doubts he could do anything.  
  
He helps Sherlock into the bathtub. Sherlock’s skin is too warm and sticky with dried sweat, but he’s pretty anyway, or handsome, probably that’s the correct term. Terribly handsome. He should have tried dating while he had a chance. Before the pandemic. Women would have loved him. Or men. John really doesn’t know. But he supposes that if Sherlock was gay, that would have come out in the conversation at some point. If Sherlock was gay, John would know. And sure, people have said so and Sherlock never tells them they’re wrong, but those are just jokes, they don’t mean…  
  
He sits down on the floor next to the bathtub. Sherlock doesn’t do anything, just sits in there, watching him.  
  
“Need soap or something?” he asks.  
  
Sherlock nods. “Thank you.”  
  
“…how about help?”  
  
“I can still wash myself, John,” Sherlock says. But he doesn’t. He takes the soap when John offers it, but then just keeps sitting there, breathing slowly in and out. He doesn’t look exactly comfortable. His eyes are moving back and forth on John’s face and he keeps making these tiny expressions that John can’t read. It’s as if he’s trying to hide something but it’s getting out and he can’t help it. That makes sense. It’s been more than twenty-four hours since he got bitten. He’s slowly losing control.  
  
“Is the water okay?” John asks, just to say something. “Not too hot?”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
“And not too cold?”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head again.  
  
John sighs and nods at the soap. “Do you want me to –“  
  
“I can’t ask you to do _everything._ ”  
  
“I don’t care if you ask or not,” John says. “I’m going to do everything anyway. Everything I can. Until I can’t do anything anymore. You must realise that. You’re my whole life.”  
  
Sherlock just stares at him.  
  
“So, I’m asking, do you want to wash yourself or do you want me to do it? Because I will. And I don’t mind. I’m going to sit here anyway. Unless you tell me to fuck off, and then I will fuck off and wait just outside the door. And I won’t let you lock the door.”  
  
“I don’t think I’m going to get out of this bathtub without help,” Sherlock says. “And I feel like… can you help me? With the…”  
  
“Yes,” John says, crawls onto his knees and takes the soap from Sherlock. “Lean forward.” He washes Sherlock’s back first. It’s the easiest. The least personal. As if every fucking thing he’s done for Sherlock hasn’t been _personal_ ever since they met. He tugs his sleeves to his elbows and then gets them wet anyway, when he reaches down to wash between Sherlock’s cheeks. That much for not getting personal, he thinks, but Sherlock doesn’t say anything, only does what he’s told. It’s worrying, but John is only going to think about that later. He washes Sherlock’s arms and armpits and hands and fingers, he shifts on the floor and washes Sherlock’s chest and stomach and neck, he moves his thumbs over Sherlock’s throat and Sherlock swallows against his hands. Sherlock is looking at him so he doesn’t look back. He looks down instead, rubs more soap onto his hands and reaches down between Sherlock’s legs to -  
  
Sherlock’s hard.  
  
Well, that could happen to anyone. It’s kind of happening to John now. Just because he’s apparently staring at Sherlock’s dick. He blinks and gets back to the washing, no reason to let this bother him, he’s a bloody _doctor_ for fuck’s sake. He can wash a man’s dick even when it’s erect. He’s just helping Sherlock. He tries to keep his touch light, though, light and casual. He wouldn’t want Sherlock to think that he’s trying to stroke -  
  
Sherlock takes in a sharp breath.  
  
“Sorry,” John says and tries to be quick about it. Just a few more seconds and…  
  
And he pulls his hand away from between Sherlock’s legs, straightens his back and looks Sherlock in the eyes.  
  
Sherlock looks hungry.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“Stop saying you’re sorry,” Sherlock says in a sharp tone. He sounds a little breathless. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I –“  
  
“Shut up,” John says and stands up. “Are you ready? We’re going to get you out of there, and then I’m going to fetch you clean clothes, and you’re going to… go back to the sofa, I think.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, “you shouldn’t be doing this, you’re… you’ve got no reason to. You’re perfectly capable of having relationships, _other_ relationships, besides me, I mean. You should find someone. You could have a life, a normal life, in which you wouldn’t have to… wash my butt.”  
  
“You’re really an idiot, I hope you know that,” John says. “I like your butt. Okay, come on, get out of there.”  
  
Sherlock leans against him heavily but manages to climb out of the bathtub, and he manages to wrap Sherlock in the towel and get them both to the living room. Sherlock’s nosing his neck again. He decides not to think about it. He stops at the sofa. He’s going to leave Sherlock here and go find something clean in Sherlock’s wardrobe -  
  
Sherlock’s mouth touches his neck.  
  
He grabs Sherlock’s arm and pulls it behind Sherlock’s back. Sherlock goes easily. He’s panting and his face is red and he’s got his eyes wide and scared and… and he looks like he’s in pain.  
  
John lets go and Sherlock falls onto the floor.  
  
“I wasn’t going to…” Sherlock says. “I just… I just wanted to…”  
  
“It’s alright,” John says and helps Sherlock up. “I won’t let you get that close again.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t look happy about that, either.  
  
“I’m going to find you something to wear. Any opinions?”  
  
“Something nice,” Sherlock says. He sounds terribly tired. “I want to look good. It’s a special occasion, after all. You and me, here, like this. One more day. Possibly two.”  
  
John finds a clean t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He gets a pullover from his own wardrobe, in case Sherlock is going to get cold. He helps Sherlock to put the clothes on but it’s difficult, when he’s also trying not to give Sherlock an access to his neck. Sherlock doesn’t bite him, though, only groans a little when he helps Sherlock to get the boxers on. Well, that could be about anything. Just about anything. “Sweatpants?” he asks, when Sherlock is wearing the boxers and the t-shirt and there’s sweat glistening on his forehead again.  
  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
“Okay,” John says. “Just tell me if you get cold.” He steps away from Sherlock. “Maybe I should take a shower, too. I don’t think deodorant is going to help me at this point. But I really… I don’t want to leave you alone for so long.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says slowly, “you smell incredibly good, like...”  
  
“Like you want to eat me.” John clears his throat. “Right. I’m going to take a shower, then. A little later. Maybe it’s going to help you with the… with your appetite. When I smell of soap and not of… me.”  
  
“Maybe,” Sherlock says. “I doubt it. John –“  
  
“But I have to do one thing now. It’ll just take a minute. Maybe five minutes.”  
  
Sherlock swallows.  
  
“Stay here,” John says. “Shout if you need me.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
He has to lock himself in the bathroom. It’s not ideal, but certainly he’s not going to do this in the kitchen, where Sherlock could see him. He asks through the door if Sherlock is alright, and then he disinfects the needle and pushes it through his skin. It’s certainly very practical that he’s got basic equipment like this at home. Not that he takes blood samples too often. He watches as the glass fills up and then yanks the needle out of his arm. He’s going to bruise but what the hell.  
  
When John goes back to the living room, it takes Sherlock a few seconds to realise what he’s got in his hand. Then Sherlock jumps closer to him, stops himself, freezes and falls back to the sofa, breathing hard.  
  
“I’ve got the gun,” John says. “I’m not going to let you do anything stupid. Don’t worry.”  
  
“This is crazy,” Sherlock says, looking at the glass of blood in John’s hand. “ _You_ are crazy. I can’t just…”  
  
“You’re going to drink this,” John says and puts the glass on the sofa table, just outside Sherlock’s reach. “And we’ll see what happens.”  
  
Sherlock clears his throat. “John, I can’t –“  
  
“Drink the blood,” John says and takes his gun in his hand. “And then sit back down on the sofa. If you jump at me, I’m going to shoot you.” He probably wouldn’t. Normally Sherlock would realise that, but now it seems that Sherlock can’t think about anything except the glass on the sofa table. “Drink,” John says, watching as Sherlock takes the glass in his hand, raises it to his lips and sips of it. Then he sips again. And again. And starts drinking. His lips get red with John’s blood. It drips down on his chin but he catches it with his finger. Then he licks his finger. Then he drinks more, and more, until the glass is empty and he’s licked his lips clean.  
  
He looks at John.  
  
“Great,” John says, taking a step back. He’s still holding the gun. “I’m going to go to the kitchen now. I need tea. Do you think you will try to bite me while I’m making it?”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head slowly.  
  
“Brilliant,” John says. “Okay. I’m just going to… and then I’ll come back and we can watch another Miss Marple.”  
  
Sherlock nods. John goes to the kitchen, Sherlock doesn’t follow. John puts the kettle on and watches the water heating up, and eventually he puts the safety on and pushes the gun back into his pocket. Maybe he’s not going to need it today, after all. That would be nice. He puts honey in the tea, just because they still have some left and he has a feeling they aren’t going to need it for long. When he goes back to the living room, Sherlock is still sitting on the sofa, just where John left him.  
  
“Better?” John asks and sits in the armchair.  
  
Sherlock nods. “Thank you, John.”  
  
“Anytime,” John says and switches on the television.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“John? John? _John?_ ”  
  
He blinks and glances around. The television is still on, he has his gun in his lap, and Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, staring at him.  
  
He grabs the gun and checks that the safety’s on. “What?”  
  
“Please, don’t shoot your balls off,” Sherlock says. “You’d be terribly grumpy.”  
  
“For how long did I –“  
  
“Not for long. Twenty minutes. And I only woke you up because I was worried about firearm safety. It’s almost midnight. Go to sleep.”  
  
John swallows. “I don’t think I should do that.”  
  
“Take the gun,” Sherlock says. “And lock the door. And don’t let me in without pointing a gun at my face.”  
  
“Sherlock –“  
  
“It was good.”  
  
John takes a deep breath. “My blood?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Seemed like that.”  
  
“I would’ve drunk more,” Sherlock says with a quiet voice. “A lot more. I don’t think I’m going to… I don’t want to hurt you, John, it’s the last thing I want to do, but I don’t know how quickly…”  
  
“How quickly you lose your self-control.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“If I go to sleep, are you going to…”  
  
“I’ll stay here,” Sherlock says. “On the sofa. Maybe we should use… precaution. I’m sure I nicked handcuffs from Greg a while ago.”  
  
“Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in bed?”  
  
“You want to handcuff me to my bed?”  
  
“I’m not going to _handcuff_ you.”  
  
“Too bad,” Sherlock says, watching him. “Maybe tomorrow.”  
  
He nods and stands up. Then he thinks about something. “Are you thirsty? Do you need more –“  
  
“No,” Sherlock says firmly. “I don’t. Just go to sleep, John.”  
  
“But –“  
  
“Good night.”  
  
“Good night,” John says. He goes to the bathroom, locks the door and puts the gun on the washing machine, takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, and thinks about shaving maybe for half a second before he decides there’s no point. When he comes out of the bathroom, Sherlock looks at him from the sofa. He says _good night_ again. Sherlock says _good night_ to him. He goes upstairs. It feels as if he’s on a stage, playing John Watson, only he doesn’t quite remember the part.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He wakes up to someone banging the door. It’s Sherlock. Of course it’s Sherlock, there’s no one else in here.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says through the door, his voice low and hoarse and rushed, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I need to… _John_ …”  
  
John takes the gun and walks to the door. It’s still locked. Good. He leans his shoulder against the door and breathes in. “Sherlock? Are you alright?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says and laughs, “no, I’m…”  
  
“Can I let you in?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
John closes his eyes for a second. _Bloody fucking hell._ “You don’t know?”  
  
“I’m just so… John, I can’t sit still, I’m too…”  
  
“Maybe you could play. The violin.”  
  
“I tried,” Sherlock says, sounding miserable. “Couldn’t hold the bow.”  
  
“I need to see you,” John says. “I can’t do anything when I’m locked in here. Can you… just go downstairs, Sherlock.”  
  
“I can’t ask you to –“  
  
“Turn around and go downstairs. And tell me when you’re there. In the living room. I’ll open the door then.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says. He sounds almost like he’s crying. “I always thought I’d never… but then I met you, and you were so… _ordinary_ , nothing special, but you were special anyway, and I never knew why, and I couldn’t figure out what –“  
  
“Sherlock, go downstairs. _Now.”_  
  
For a few seconds, everything’s silent. Then John can hear Sherlock’s footsteps going down the stairs, thank god. It sounds as if Sherlock’s leaning against the wall. John waits until he hears Sherlock saying his name, and then he holds the gun up and unlocks the door.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says. He’s sitting on the floor in the living room.  
  
“Don’t,” John says, getting closer, “don’t apologise. I’m just going to… I’ll fix this.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even point out that John can’t really change anything. He’s grateful for that. He goes to the bathroom, locks the door and draws his blood until he’s feeling a little dizzy. In the living room, he tells Sherlock to wait, leaves the glass just outside Sherlock’s reach and then backs away. Sherlock doesn’t wait for a permission before he crawls to the glass and empties it. This time, he’s faster. He spills on his hands and licks them, he spills on the floor and licks it, too. Only when the glass is empty, he seems to realise what he’s doing.  
  
“It’s alright,” John says. “Are you feeling better?”  
  
“A little,” Sherlock says, breathing slowly in and out. “You look pale.”  
  
“I’m sure you look worse than me.”  
  
“I’m sure this isn’t a competition.”  
  
“Everything’s a competition for you,” John says, but he’s tired and scared and can’t make his voice sharp. His right hand is shaking. He sits down on the floor, looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock looks back at him. “It’s better than the alternative.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says. “I think the handcuffs are in my drawer. I need you to get them and handcuff me to… anything, really.”  
  
“You can’t break through my door.”  
  
“We don’t know that. Please.”  
  
He finds the handcuffs in Sherlock’s drawer. It feels thoroughly wrong to go through Sherlock’s private things like this, but it feels more wrong when a few minutes later, he closes the other end of the handcuffs around Sherlock’s wrist and attaches the other to the headboard of Sherlock’s bed. Maybe Sherlock is going to get a little sleep. But he still looks thirsty.  
  
John goes back to his bedroom, locks the door and lies awake on the bed. It’s almost the morning already, when he hears voices coming from downstairs. It sounds as if Sherlock’s banging the headboard against the wall.


	3. Chapter 3

SHERLOCK  
  
  
  
He can hear John getting up from the bed, walking a circle, putting his trousers on, checking the gun, unlocking the door… John’s steps come closer, then stop, still in the stairs, then come closer again, stop behind his door. He breathes in and out. He’s alright. He can concentrate. He’s going to… he’s going to talk to John, because there’s something he has to tell, only he can’t remember… He needs John to do something for him. To fix this. But before that, he has to tell John that he… that he…  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
Someone’s panting in the room. Probably him. He’s too hungry and too tired, can’t think anymore, and that’s bad, because John needs to _know._ He’s never been in love before. He kind of thought people are overreacting about it. But they aren’t. They really aren’t. He wants to hold John, he wants to entangle their limbs, he wants to press his naked skin against John’s, he wants to kiss John, he wants to touch everything in John, he wants to put his mouth against John’s throat and rip the skin open and drink -  
  
No, no, _no_ -  
  
“Sherlock? I’m going to come in. But I’ve got my gun.”  
  
He needs John to kill him. This has gone on for too long. There’s no cure. He’s not going to get through this. And it doesn’t matter, the only thing that matters is that _John_ lives, that Sherlock doesn’t hurt John before he -  
  
No. He wants to live, too. He wants to. He _needs_ to. He needs _time_ with John. Because he’s in love. That’s what he was meaning to say, isn’t it? That’s what he almost forgot, but not really, because it’s everywhere in him. It’s under his skin. He’s in love with John Watson. He just needs to… he needs John to understand, and then John is going to let him, John is going to let him kiss John’s wrist, and open it, it won’t even hurt, John, really, it’s just like a kiss. You’ve kissed people before, haven’t you, John? They’ve kissed you. It’s just like that. Just let me…  
  
“Sherlock?” John asks. He’s in the doorway now. He’s _right there,_ with the gun in his hand, but he’s not going to use it, of course not. He doesn’t need to. He looks at Sherlock, and Sherlock tries to go to him but something holds him back. “Fucking hell,” John says, “Sherlock, your _wrist_ ,” and then Sherlock realises something warm is dripping down his forearm. Apparently he’s bleeding. What a waste. “Stop that,” John says.  
  
“What?” Sherlock asks. He doesn’t sound like himself. John seems to think so, too, because he’s not coming any closer, and he doesn’t let Sherlock go, even though Sherlock is in pain.  
  
“You’re trying to… it looks like you’re trying to pull your wrist off.”  
  
Sherlock laughs. That’s ridiculous. Then he looks at his hand again. “You handcuffed me.”  
  
“You asked me to. Sherlock, can I… if I let you go, are you going to…”  
  
Sherlock pulls his arm harder. The pain gets worse. That’s frustrating.  
  
“…are you going to bite me?”  
  
“Yes,” he says to John. Finally John is making sense. “Just a little. It won’t hurt. I promise.”  
  
John looks like Sherlock hit him in the face.  
  
“John. Please –“  
  
“I can’t do this,” John says and raises his hand. He’s still holding the gun. He points it at Sherlock. The safety’s off.  
  
Sherlock breathes in and out. “Are you going to kill me?”  
  
“Yes,” John says. His hands are shaking.  
  
Sherlock nods. There was a reason. He can’t quite remember it right now, but there’s a reason why John needs to kill him. “Come closer,” he says.  
  
“I can’t,” John says, his voice sounding all wrong. “You’ll bite me.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says and then thinks about it. “Maybe.”  
  
John flinches.  
  
“Wait,” Sherlock says, “I needed to… I need to tell you something, John. I have to do it now. Before you shoot me. It’s…”  
  
“What?” John asks. His face is wet. He’s crying.  
  
“I don’t remember,” Sherlock says. “Don’t cry.”  
  
“I’m not crying,” John says, holding up the gun.  



	4. Chapter 4

JOHN  
  
  
  
He closes Sherlock’s bedroom door after himself, walks to the bathroom, puts the gun in his pocket, then remembers it’s still loaded, puts the safety on, puts the gun in his pocket again, washes his hands, washes his face, and washes his hands again. Then his knees give out. He sits down on the floor. Crying is pointless but it seems that he’s already doing it. He sounds like a goddamn puppy. Once when he was a kid, the neighbour’s dog got hit by a car. He sounds like the poor thing right after. Someone should put a bullet into his head. Someone should finish this. Bloody hell, _he_ should finish this.  
  
He takes the gun, turns it in his hands, and puts it back. Then he washes his face again. And then his hands. Then he gets a needle, pushes it through the bruising skin inside his elbow and draws as much blood as he can bear.  
  
When he goes back to Sherlock’s room, he finds Sherlock still sitting on the floor. Sherlock’s eyes snap at him the moment he opens the door. The blood is still running on Sherlock’s wrist, the one Sherlock has apparently been trying to remove from the handcuffs with sheer force.  
  
“Don’t move,” he tells Sherlock, leans down and places the glass on the floor in front of Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t try to attack him, which is great, because obviously he doesn’t have it in him to pull the trigger. He staggers back to the door and then sits down. His heart is pounding too fast in his chest. Maybe he’s going to throw up. Or pass out after all. But he doesn’t, no, he just watches as Sherlock empties a glass of his blood.  
  
They sit on the floor for what feels like a long time. Fifteen minutes, maybe. Sherlock leans his back against the edge of the mattress, blinking and blinking until finally his eyes become more focused. And John keeps swallowing even though his mouth is dry and he can’t remember ever being so scared and so tired at the same time.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says finally. His voice is hoarse and broken but not half-mad like it was a moment before, when John found him on the floor trying to pull his wrist off. “What did I –“  
  
“You’re losing it,” John says. Oh, god, he’s going to start crying again. “I can’t let you go.”  
  
“What did I –“  
  
“Nothing. But you would have. You wanted to bite me.”  
  
Sherlock stares at him, frowning, then nods.  
  
“You said,” he says and tries to breathe, but he can’t, he’s crying now, “you said that it wouldn’t hurt. That you’d only bite me a little. Sherlock, I can’t shoot you.”  
  
“You have to,” Sherlock says. “You promised.”  
  
“I didn’t.”  
  
“There’s no other way. How much… you can’t keep giving me your blood. You look like you’re going to pass out.”  
  
John can’t make himself say that he is not.  
  
Sherlock shifts closer to him and only then seems to remember the handcuffs. “Shoot me now. Right now. When I’m still me.”  
  
John shakes his head. “Maybe I should call Mycroft –“  
  
“No. Not him. I want to be with you. Just you. When I die.”  
  
“I can’t do it.”  
  
“ _John_ ”, Sherlock says, breathing hard, “there’s nothing else you _can_ do. I won’t let you die. I forbid it.”  
  
“You aren’t the boss.”  
  
“Well, I know _that._ You’ve always been the boss.”  
  
John laughs. Oh, god, his head hurts like hell.  
  
“I mean it,” Sherlock says, staring at him. “I would’ve done anything for you. If you had asked me to. I would’ve… _anything._ ”  
  
He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Just to stop the world from spinning. “Anything?”  
  
“To stop you from leaving me. I would’ve given you everything I… but you never asked of anything. You just ask for… for a cup of tea, for me to do the groceries or clean the bathroom, things like that. Nothing that matters.”  
  
“Those things matter.”  
  
“I would’ve… I would’ve caught a serial killer for you, John.”  
  
“I didn’t want a serial killer. I just wanted you to make me a cup of tea.” He takes a deep breath. “And you did. So many times.”  
  
“But I never… it took me so long to realise that I… that I could do more than make you tea.”  
  
“Your tea is always too strong. You always forget about it and leave the teabag in for too long.” He opens his eyes and looks at Sherlock. Just a few minutes. When Sherlock loses his mind again, John is going to shoot him. And then this will finally be over. Then he can… then he can lay down here. He’s got bullets. “It was good. Our life, I mean. It was good, Sherlock.”  
  
“It wasn’t enough. I didn’t tell you –“  
  
“It was perfect. I’d do it all over again.” He laughs. “Except this last part.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sherlock says slowly. “John, look at me. You’re passing out.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” John says but can’t focus his eyes.  
  
“Yes, you are.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” he says. The room is getting dark, which is odd, because it’s almost morning. “I’m not going to pass out. I can tell. I’m a doctor.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
He wakes up to someone grabbing him hard by the shoulders. He kicks the attacker in the groin and then realises it’s Sherlock.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, and then he realises it’s _Sherlock_. Sherlock is on him, pressing him against the floor, and he doesn’t remember where his gun is, certainly not in his hand, although luckily it’s not in Sherlock’s hand either. “Sherlock,” he says, but it doesn’t look like Sherlock’s listening. Sherlock lets go off John’s left shoulder and touches John’s face instead. Sherlock’s hand is a bloody mess. “You pulled your hand free,” John says.  
  
“Obviously,” Sherlock says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
  
“Get off me then.”  
  
“I can’t. You were going to shoot me.” Sherlock blinks at him. “What’s happening?”  
  
“I don’t know. Sherlock –“  
  
“Are we having sex?”  
  
He swallows. “ _What?_ ”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“This isn’t _sex_ ,” he says. “You’re trying to kill me.”  
  
“I’d never try to kill you,” Sherlock says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m in love with you.”  
  
John knees him in the groin as hard as he can and then tries to get away, but he’s too tired and too slow. Sherlock grabs his wrist and yanks him back. He kicks Sherlock in the stomach but Sherlock doesn’t let go.  
  
“Don’t leave me,” Sherlock says.  
  
“I’m not going to _leave you_ ,” John says and tries to knee Sherlock in the chin but hits Sherlock’s shoulder instead. He’s not sure if Sherlock even feels it. “And you aren’t in love with me, you idiot, you just want to eat me. I thought even you could tell the difference but apparently not.”  
  
“I don’t want to eat you,” Sherlock says and frowns, “well, I want to eat you a little, but that doesn’t have anything to do with it. I think I love you.”  
  
“And you’re telling me _now?_ ”  
  
“Seemed like a good moment,” Sherlock says. He’s trying to drag John closer to him across the floor but apparently he can’t get a good grip with his bloody right hand. “Why am I doing this?”  
  
“Because you’re a vampire,” John says.  
  
Sherlock laughs. John kind of wants to laugh, too, so he does. No one’s ever going to find out that he fucking lost his mind in the end. And he hasn’t even been infected yet, so he has nothing to blame for it, only himself. Only his stupid little heart. He tries to shove his elbow at Sherlock’s face but Sherlock only seems to think it’s annoying, nothing more. It’s certainly not going to stop Sherlock from feeding on him. Nothing’s going to stop Sherlock now, except maybe the gun.  
  
John looks around. The gun is… on the floor, not so far away from him. If he managed to get free from Sherlock’s grip, just for a few seconds, maybe he could reach -  
  
“John,” Sherlock says and climbs onto him again. He hits the back of his head against the floor, bites his tongue, then tastes blood in his mouth. “I want to kiss you.”  
  
“No, you don’t,” John says. Sherlock doesn’t like kissing. He’s almost sure of that. Sherlock doesn’t do any of that, no dating, no kissing, probably not sex, maybe not ever. Sherlock isn’t interested. If he was, John would know. “You only want to kiss me because I’ve got blood in my mouth,” John explains.  
  
Sherlock pushes his thumb into John’s mouth. “No.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I feel a little weird,” Sherlock says, pulling his thumb out. “Maybe I’m getting sick.”  
  
“Maybe,” John says. Oh, _shit,_ Sherlock is sitting on his groin now, and he’s not getting hard, not from _this_ , it’d be absurd, it’d be completely fucking lunatic, and also probably the last time he’s ever going to get hard in his life.  
  
“I didn’t think it’d be like this,” Sherlock says and kisses him.  
  
He puts his hands against Sherlock’s chest and tries to push Sherlock away. When that doesn’t work out, he kisses Sherlock back.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, pulling back a little. It’s too early. They barely got started. But Sherlock moves down until he has his mouth pressed against John’s throat. His breathing is hot and damp, his hands on John are steady, and John realises vaguely that he’s stopped fighting. He pushes his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, listens to his own heartbeat and tries to breathe.  
  
It doesn’t hurt almost at all. Just stings a little, and then there’s warmth spreading under his skin, and it’s odd, he didn’t think it’d be like this, not at all, but it’s alright, because it’s with Sherlock. He's going to die with Sherlock. Just like he’s supposed to. This time, they’re going to do it right. Sherlock isn’t going to leave him behind.  
  
He lets go off Sherlock’s hair and closes his eyes.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He lies on the floor. His neck aches, his head is hanging in a very bad angle, his shoulder is pressed against the floor under him and that hurts too, but he’s breathing, he’s obviously still breathing. It’s difficult to tell if that’s good or not.  
  
He tries to roll onto his back but only manages to poke his elbow in Sherlock’s chest. One of Sherlock’s arms is draped over his waist, Sherlock’s injured hand is resting lightly on his stomach, and Sherlock’s legs are entangled with his, one of Sherlock’s knees pushed in between his thighs. He breathes in and out, then turns enough to see Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyelids flicker. He looks so pretty, even know. Even in the end.  
  
John wriggles his right hand free from under Sherlock’s arm and touches Sherlock’s forehead. It’s too cold. But Sherlock looks peaceful and like he’s not hurting at all. That’s good. That’s all that John cares about now.  
  
He watches Sherlock until Sherlock’s face shift. Sherlock blinks a couple of times, then opens his eyes and looks at John.  
  
“I’m hugging you,” Sherlock says slowly.  
  
“Yes, you are.”  
  
“…did we have sex?”  
  
John bites his lip. “Sex? I wouldn’t know. I passed out.”  
  
Sherlock swallows.  
  
“Why do you keep talking about sex? You never talk about sex.”  
  
“Sex is irrelevant,” Sherlock says. “Usually. But…” Then he pauses. His eyes are moving back and forth on John’s face, his mouth opens and closes, and the look in his eyes goes so sad John doesn’t want to see it. He looks anyway. He can’t turn away now. “I bit you,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I’m –“  
  
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” John says and touches Sherlock’s wrist but avoids the mess Sherlock made when he pulled his hand free from the handcuff. John’s going to have to do something about that. Soon. “You told me to shoot you. Plenty of times. I was the one with the gun. This is on me.”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
“You aren’t allowed to think that this is your fault. I forbid it, do you hear me, I forbid it. And I’m the boss.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move away either. His knee is still in between John’s thighs.  
  
“How’re you feeling?”  
  
“Better,” Sherlock says, not sounding happy about it. “Almost like myself.”  
  
“I think your body temperature is dropping.”  
  
“Well –“  
  
“It’s what’s going to happen.”  
  
“I’m a vampire, what did you expect?” Sherlock says in a very quiet voice, then chews on his lower lip. “John, I should apologise. For… the rest of it. At least.”  
  
“No,” John says, “you did nothing wrong.” He runs his fingers back and forth on Sherlock’s forearm, just to let Sherlock know he means it, that he means _this_ , Sherlock cuddling him on the floor while he was unconscious. It’s alright. He supposes anything’s alright from now on.  
  
“What’re we going to do now?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“Now,” John says slowly, “we make certain that neither one of us leaves this flat. Ever again.”  
  
Sherlock nods.  
  
“And I’m going to look at your hand.”  
  
“…really?”  
  
“Yeah. I’m still a doctor.”  
  
“I don’t need you to be,” Sherlock says. “Not anymore. I just… I just need _you._ ”  
  
John swallows. Oh, god, he’s not going to start crying _again_ , not when his head is already aching like hell. He takes in a deep breath and Sherlock tightens his arm around him, draws him closer, then presses his mouth against his forehead. It’s not a kiss. It’s not. Even though John is pretty sure Sherlock kissed him earlier, before he…  
  
“Hey,” he says to Sherlock, “I hope you realise… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill you, I knew I should but I couldn’t. I didn’t have it in me. This is the best possible outcome we could get.”  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock says, his eyes stopping at John’s throat.  
  
John squeezes Sherlock’s forearm. “How bad?”  
  
“For an aspiring vampire,” Sherlock says flatly, “not bad. It’s stopped bleeding. It’s going to scar, though.”  
  
“A permanent love-bite. Great.”  
  
“Don’t laugh.”  
  
“I should’ve known you’d give it your everything,” John says and takes a deep breath. “I need to get up. To get to the bathroom.”  
  
“I’ll help,” Sherlock says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The light in the bathroom is too bright. He keeps it on anyway. He needs to see. The wound on his throat doesn’t look too bad, not like Sherlock’s. He thinks about stitches but decides not to. Waste of time. And his hands aren’t exactly steady, whether that’s from the loss of blood or the infection. Or the knowledge that he’s going to die in four or five days. Probably sooner, because Sherlock doesn’t have that long, and he’s not going to be left behind anymore.  
  
“Your hand, then,” he says to Sherlock, who’s standing right behind him.  
  
“Really?” Sherlock asks, but gives John his hand. It’s a fucking mess. John tells him he was an idiot to pull his hand free like this, he could have seriously injured himself. Sherlock snorts but then cries out from pain when John starts cleaning the wounds. It’s oddly satisfying. It shouldn’t be, but who the fuck cares at this point.  
  
When Sherlock’s hand is wrapped in bandages, John is beginning to feel dizzy again. He grabs the sink with both hands and Sherlock grabs him and helps him to the living room. He tries to go to his armchair but Sherlock pushes him towards sofa. He’s too tired to argue. He lies down on his back and lets Sherlock push a pillow behind his neck, and then he closes his eyes.  
  
He stirs awake when Sherlock is sitting next to him on the floor.  
  
“Great, you’re awake,” Sherlock says and puts a mug in his hand. “Here, try this.”  
  
John looks in the mug. It’s not tea. “Sherlock –“  
  
“Just try. Maybe it’s too early, I don’t know. It’s been five hours and thirty minutes since I bit you. Approximately. I didn’t check the time while I was at it.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have –“  
  
“I’ve stuck a needle into my arm for worse things than this,” Sherlock says. “You’ve lost too much blood, John. You’re already feeling like shit because of that. Just try drinking a little. If you can’t, I’ll put it in the fridge.”  
  
“ _In the fridge –_ “  
  
“We can heat it in the microwave when you get thirsty.”  
  
John laughs, sounding utterly unhappy, but he can’t help it now. He raises the mug to his lips. It’s his favourite mug. Sherlock gave it to him once as a joke. He’s always been sure Molly picked it but Sherlock hasn’t admitted that. He clears his throat and then sips, just a little. The blood is warm and sticky and disgusting and… and not as disgusting as it should be.  
  
“Well?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
Sherlock inspects him for a moment. “Alright, we’ll try it again later. In a few hours.”  
  
He closes his eyes. “Sherlock –“  
  
“John?”  
  
“You’re going to want to eat me.”  
  
“You’re going to want to eat me, too,” Sherlock says, but his voice is too steady.  
  
“No, I mean… you’re two days ahead of me. You’re surprisingly sane right now, and I suppose that’s… because you managed to drink from me. But you aren’t going to stay sane.”  
  
“…I know.”  
  
“And I just want you to know,” John says, opens his eyes and puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder because it’s right there and because he doesn’t have much to lose anymore. He strokes the cool skin on Sherlock’s neck with his thumb and then feels Sherlock’s pulse. It’s very slow. “I need you to know, that it’s alright. You’re going to rip me apart. It’s alright.”  
  
“Of course it isn’t,” Sherlock says, sounding angry, but he doesn’t pull away from John’s touch.  
  
“Anything you do to me,” John says, taking a deep breath, “it’s fine. You’re allowed to. I consent. I –“  
  
“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says in a sharp voice, “I’m not going to –“  
  
“I forgive you. Anything. I just think… that maybe we should put it off as long as we can.”  
  
Sherlock is quiet for a long time before answering. John’s still touching his neck. “I agree.”  
  
“If you help me to my bedroom,” John says, “I’m going to lock the door. And take the gun with me.”  
  
“You can’t shoot yourself.”  
  
“No. I’m not going to.”  
  
“Promise?”  
  
He nods.  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock says. “But not your bedroom. Mine. It’s closer. And the mattress is better.”  
  
John bites his lip.  
  
“Yours is _cheap_ and miserable,” Sherlock says. “I tried it once when you were away. I can’t understand how you can sleep in that thing.”  
  
“My bed is just fine,” John says. But he doesn’t resist, when Sherlock helps him first to the bathroom and then to the bedroom. There, he watches as Sherlock takes the sheets out of the bed. There’s blood on them. It’s probably Sherlock’s. There’s no blood on the floor. That shouldn’t be surprising. Obviously, Sherlock wouldn’t have wasted it. Not John’s blood. That’s good. John needs to keep Sherlock alive as long as possible, and he needs his blood for that. He’s not going to let Sherlock starve.  
  
“Lock the door,” Sherlock says. “And don’t let me in.”  
  
“Of course I’m going to let you in,” John says. “Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock looks at him, already at the door, ready to go and leave John alone in his bed.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“You shouldn’t thank me,” Sherlock says and leaves.  
  
John locks the door.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s fucking boring, that’s what it is.  
  
He sleeps for maybe thirty minutes and then lies awake on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s not actually bad, Sherlock’s mattress. Maybe there’s some truth in that more expensive stuff might be slightly better. But he doesn’t have any regrets. Not really. His life hasn’t been great, but it’s been… it’s been a life. He’s done some things he shouldn’t have done and there’s a lot of things he didn’t do, and he doesn’t regret it. There’s no point. You can’t get everything in one life, you just can’t, every choice you make makes a hundred other choices impossible. Every door you open closes another door. You can change your way but not indefinitely, because you’re always running out of time. All the living things break apart and rot. It’s good. It means you’ve got to focus on things that matter. Like Sherlock. He supposes nothing’s mattered to him like Sherlock, not since he was a kid.  
  
He climbs out of the bed and sits on the floor for a while. He can’t hear anything from the rest of the apartment. Maybe Sherlock’s sleeping, too. But it seems a bit pointless that John’s locked in here, when the only thing that matters to him is Sherlock, and Sherlock is just outside that door.  
  
He waits for another hour. There’re books in a pile on the floor. He checks them and tries to read one but it’s terrible. He opens the curtains and tries to watch the street but the light is too bright. He lies on the floor for a while, in the same spot where he woke up with Sherlock’s arm wrapped around him. They could do that again. If Sherlock can avoid biting him in the neck. Or if Sherlock can bite him only a little. That would be good. That would do.  
  
He takes the gun but doesn’t put the safety off. He’s not going to shoot Sherlock. He unlocks the door and walks to the living room. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa with a book in his hands, but his eyes are on John. He looks hungry again.  
  
“What?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“I’m bored.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“Bored,” John says. “Bored, bored, bored. I trust you know the feeling. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life locked in the bedroom, when you’re _right here._ ”  
  
“I’m dangerous to you,” Sherlock says slowly. “You said it yourself. I might kill you.”  
  
John bites his lip.  
  
“I mean, I might kill you too soon.”  
  
“Yeah.” He grabs the back of his armchair, then slowly sits down. His muscles are aching and he feels cold even though his clothes are starting to cling into his skin. Disgusting. But it helps that he can sit in his own armchair. “I don’t think you’re going to, though.”  
  
“John –“  
  
“You wouldn’t want to do that,” he says, not sure whom he’s bargaining with. “Because then you’d be alone.”  
  
“The virus,” Sherlock says slowly, “it’s going to eat my brain. I’m not going to realise what I’m doing.”  
  
“I’m your pack, Sherlock. You wouldn’t kill me.”  
  
“I’m quite sure I would.”  
  
“Alright,” John says and puts the gun on the sofa table. “I’m taking that risk. If you kill me and you’re left here alone, you can fix it with this. And we’re going to find the way to block the door so that we can’t get out.”  
  
“That’s not easy.”  
  
“You’ll figure out a way. You’re the smartest man I’ve ever known.” He takes in a deep breath. “The most brilliant man. The _best_ man. You’re _my_ best man –“  
  
“You’re hallucinating,” Sherlock says and gets up from the sofa slowly, as if he’s holding himself back. His eyes are fixed on John. “I’m going to get you something to drink.”  
  
“Yeah,” John says and closes his eyes. A cup of tea would be nice. A cup of -  
  
Sherlock brings him a cup of blood. It’s warm. Sherlock heated it in the microwave oven.  
  
It tastes like blood.  
  
But not in a bad way.  
  
He drinks everything and then looks up.  
  
Sherlock is watching him.  
  
“How was it?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“Good.”  
  
Sherlock nods like he knows. “What now?”  
  
“One more Miss Marple.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Sherlock puts the movie on. John stays in his armchair for five minutes. Then he gets up and goes to the sofa.  
  
“Don’t do that,” Sherlock says.  
  
“You aren’t going to bite me.”  
  
“…why?”  
  
“Because I say so.”  
  
“You think too much of yourself,” Sherlock says. He’s perfectly still when John settles on the sofa next to him, so close that their arms are brushing.  
  
“That makes two of us.”  
  
Sherlock sighs but doesn’t push John away. John leans against Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“…Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock’s hands stop. Sherlock’s been doing something with John’s hair for a while now. It’s unclear what it is. John doesn’t even know if it’s supposed to feel good or not. But it does. So, maybe Sherlock’s petting him. Or maybe it’s a scientific experiment of some sort and he’s just become a fucking romantic in his last days.  
  
“You can keep doing that,” he says, “whatever it is that you’re doing. I just thought…”  
  
“What?” Sherlock asks but gets back to moving his fingers in John’s hair. John’s kind of resting against Sherlock’s chest now, which is nice. Sherlock smells _good._  
  
“Do you like it at all?”  
  
“…what?”  
  
John clears his throat. “Sex. And… stuff.”  
  
“Sex and stuff?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I like stuff.”  
  
He wants to poke Sherlock in the ribs but can’t bother, because he’s busy sweating and aching and dying and getting caressed by Sherlock’s clever fingers. “Don’t be a smart-ass. I mean… sex-related stuff.”  
  
“Like dildos?”  
  
Oh, bloody fucking… _“_ Like _dildos?_ ”  
  
“You said, _sex-related stuff_.”  
  
“I meant… I meant _kissing._ ”  
  
“Kissing?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You want to know if I like kissing?”  
  
“…yeah.”  
  
Sherlock is quiet for a while. “Generally, no. It seems pretty pointless. Unless I really like the person.”  
  
“I think that’s the whole idea.”  
  
“I don’t usually like people that way.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. It’s not your thing.”  
  
“No, I… what do you mean, it’s not my thing?”  
  
“That you don’t do it.”  
  
Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I kissed you.”  
  
John closes his eyes. “Yeah.”  
  
“Today.”  
  
“It was about the biting thing, though.”  
  
“Of course it wasn’t.”  
  
“…it wasn’t?”  
  
“No.”  
  
John opens his mouth and then closes it. “Have you had sex?”  
  
“Depends,” Sherlock says, fingers in his hair.  
  
“On what?”  
  
“How you define _sex._ ”  
  
“The normal way.”  
  
“The _normal_ way,” Sherlock says slowly. “Well, if you mean to ask if I have ever put my penis in anyone’s vagina, then no, I haven’t done that.”  
  
“…okay.”  
  
“Have I put my penis in someone’s anus? No.”  
  
Oh, _shit._ “Sherlock –“  
  
“You asked.”  
  
“You don’t have to tell me. You don’t owe me anything.”  
  
“I owe you everything,” Sherlock says, “but that’s not why I’m telling you this.”  
  
“…why are you telling me this?”  
  
“Because I’m bored. Of course.”  
  
John breathes out. “I can’t understand what I see in you.”  
  
“Cheekbones. You told me once.” Sherlock pauses. “I don’t have anything against it.”  
  
“Cheekbones?”  
  
“Sex. And stuff.”  
  
“…dildos?”  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
“Sorry, sorry. You don’t have anything against sex.”  
  
“No, I don’t. I just… it’s rarely worth the effort to bother with people. About anything. If you can avoid it. And… and it’s very easy to get off by yourself.”  
  
“Not as fun.”  
  
“Much less messy.”  
  
“I don’t mind messy.”  
  
“I know you don’t. Except when it’s in the kitchen and it’s blood.”  
  
John smiles.  
  
“I meant _before._ Speaking of which, are you thirsty yet?”  
  
“A little.”  
  
“Want to bite me?”  
  
He thinks about it, about pressing his mouth against Sherlock’s throat, and his groin against… “No.”  
  
“Okay. Another Miss Marple?”  
  
“Maybe not. Sherlock?”  
  
“John?”  
  
“Am I hot?”  
  
Sherlock’s fingers move from his hair to his forehead. “Yes. Absolutely. I always thought so.”  
  
John takes in a deep breath and shifts so that the back of his head is leaning against the crook of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. He can feel Sherlock’s breathing against his ear. It’s cold but that’s good, because he’s burning. “You didn’t tell me.”  
  
“I didn’t want any distractions.”  
  
“There’s not much to get distracted from, now.”  
  
“Yeah. And…”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“And I didn’t know you. Back then. In the beginning.”  
  
“You know me now.”  
  
“I hope so.”  
  
“You know me, Sherlock. And you have me.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, only keeps petting his sweaty hair.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“John?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“John?”  
  
“…yeah?”  
  
“John.”  
  
He blinks. They’re lying on the sofa now, even though he’s not exactly sure how they got here. He’s got rid of his pullover at some point, and then of his sweatpants. He still has his t-shirt on, but it’s soaked through. He probably smells terrible, but Sherlock has a nose in the crook of his neck, so he doesn’t seem to mind too much.  
  
“Sherlock,” he says and pushes his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. He needs to drink but he can’t move, because Sherlock’s kind of lying on him.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says and kisses his throat. “John, I…”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I don’t…”  
  
He closes his eyes. It must be midnight already but he can’t see the clock. It doesn’t matter. “You can, you know.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I…”  
  
He shifts closer to Sherlock and ends up rubbing his dick against Sherlock’s thigh. He’s not exactly hard. But he could get there. It’d be easy, with Sherlock on him like that, pressing him against the cushions of the sofa. For someone so thin Sherlock’s surprisingly heavy. Must be the brain.  
  
“Come on,” John says and looks up. Sherlock already has his mouth on John’s throat. He doesn’t look at John. “This is how it’s going to be.”  
  
“I can’t…”  
  
John takes in a short breath and shoves his dick against Sherlock’s thigh.  
  
Sherlock bites him.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s good. He doesn’t have to do anything. He can just lie here, like this, under Sherlock, who’s going to do all the work. And it doesn’t hurt. Just stings. A little. Like the last time. And this time, he doesn’t have to think that this changes anything. It doesn’t. He’s already dead. The only thing left to do is to stay as close to Sherlock as he can, and this is it.  
  
And then he realises he’s fighting.  
  
Must be a reflex. He doesn’t mean it. He shoves his knee into Sherlock’s groin and Sherlock hisses at him and grabs his arms, tight, tighter than he needs to, but John can’t make himself point that out. He elbows Sherlock in the chest instead, and then in the throat. Sherlock pulls back. John doesn’t want that, but the world is getting blurry, and someone’s on his neck, he has to fight it, he has to…  
  
No. _No._ It’s Sherlock. He’s not supposed to. He _wants_ Sherlock to do this. It doesn’t matter.  
  
He tries to stay still but ends up punching Sherlock. Sherlock stops his hand easily but they both fall from the sofa in the process, and the floor is cold, which is good, because John is still burning, and he needs to… he needs to…  
  
Sherlock pins him against the floor and tries to bite his neck again. He gets his hand free, grabs Sherlock’s chin and forces it up. Then he kisses Sherlock. On the mouth. He wants to bite but doesn’t have the strength, and it’s too much anyway. But this he can do. He’s good at kissing. Always was. Has kissed plenty of people. And now it’s over. Now this is the only person who’s left. The only human being in the world. Sherlock Holmes. And how long he’s wanted to do this, exactly? No idea. Must’ve been a while. Maybe years. But he thought… he thought Sherlock never would…  
  
Sherlock kisses him back, takes his face in between his hands, pulls away to look at him, then kisses him again.  
  
He’s floating, or maybe fainting.  
  
He kisses Sherlock and pushes his own hand into his pants. He’s almost hard now. He wraps his fingers around his dick and tugs a few times, but Sherlock catches his wrist and stops him.  
  
“Sorry,” he says.  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, bats his hand away and replaces it with his own.  
  
Oh _bloody fucking fuck_ it’s good. But… “Do you want to?”  
  
“What?” Sherlock asks, not stopping.  
  
“Put your…” John takes a deep breath, then another. Still conscious. Still alive. Still in love with Sherlock Holmes, apparently. “Put your penis in someone’s anus.”  
  
Sherlock freezes.  
  
“Because I’ve done it,” John says and closes his eyes, so he doesn’t need to see the look on Sherlock’s face. “I’ve had someone’s… years ago. Before the army. It was supposed to be a joke. But… it’s not a very good joke, isn’t it, to have someone fuck you –“  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, clearing his throat.  
  
“You could. You can.”  
  
“I thought…” Sherlock says, sounding sober for a moment. Apparently the thought of sticking your dick into your best friend’s ass is enough to sober up even a vampire. “John? What’re you laughing at?”  
  
“Nothing.” _A vampire._ Is it even gay sex if they’re both vampires?  
  
“I thought you were straight,” Sherlock says.  
  
“No one’s that straight.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“Sherlock,” John says and touches Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock is still holding his dick but doing nothing with it. That’s not good. He’s kind of in a hurry here. He’s going to die. “You can fuck me. If you want to. That’s what I’m saying.”  
  
Sherlock swallows. “Right now?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What about…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“A condom.”  
  
John laughs out loud. “A fucking _condom_ –“  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock says, touches the spot on John’s throat and then licks his fingers. “I get the point. Lube, then.”  
  
“It’s in my room.” He’s not going to get it. He doubts Sherlock is but can see Sherlock thinking about it. “Something from the fridge?”  
  
Sherlock blinks.  
  
“Butter.”  
  
“John, I’m not going to –“  
  
“It’s not like we’re going to eat it.”  
  
Sherlock stares at him.  
  
“Get the butter,” he says, “or do I have to get it myself? I’m going to pass out if I try to stand up.”  
  
Sherlock climbs off him. It’s a disappointment. He lies on the floor, trying to catch his breathing, and listens to Sherlock’s steps going to the fridge and back. Sherlock’s quick. In a hurry, which is good. He should be. He’s going to have sex. With John. He should be eager. John’s good in bed, because he’s practiced a lot, hasn’t he, only he thinks that he might be a little compromised right now. Doesn’t matter. He manages to get rid of his pants, and when Sherlock is back at him again, he pulls the t-shirt off. John looks at him.  
  
“You’re the prettiest man I know.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t answer, only kisses him and then bites through his lip.  
  
“Hey,” he says, “you need to… I’m not going to last.” If he loses enough blood, he’s not going to be around for what happens next, and he desperately wants to. At least Sherlock seems to get the message. He pulls back, takes the butter and pushes his fingers into it. It’s absolutely gross and John can’t stop looking. Then Sherlock spreads his legs and sits in between them, and he tries to see as Sherlock pushes a finger against his entrance, rubs tiny circles over the tight muscle, and then pushes in. Too fast. Just right. But it’s not enough. John is thirsty as hell and a fucking mess and feels like crawling out of his skin and also he needs Sherlock in him, like, right now.  
  
“Come on,” he says to the ceiling, “come on, just do it. No fingers. I can’t… it’s taking too long, Sherlock. I can take it. I’m a doctor.”  
  
Sherlock pulls his finger out, pushes his hand into the butter again and then pushes two fingers into John.  
  
_Bloody fucking_ – “Sherlock. Your cock. Right now.”  
  
“I want to do this right,” Sherlock says.  
  
_Oh._  
  
“You’re doing it right.”  
  
“John –“  
  
“Hey,” John says and reaches to touch Sherlock’s arm. “You’re doing great. It’s just… I don’t have much patience at the moment, and I’m already aching all over, so it doesn’t make much difference, and I just want to… I don’t think I’m going to stay conscious for long.”  
  
Sherlock pulls his fingers out and looks at him.  
  
“Get naked,” he says. “And get in me.”  
  
Sherlock blinks.  
  
“I’m the boss, Sherlock. I’m the boss. We said so.”  
  
He doesn’t feel like the boss. He takes a deep breath and squeezes the base of his dick, just to make sure that this isn’t going to be over too soon, only he’s getting a little soft again, so maybe he shouldn’t worry about that. Sherlock leans against the sofa and battles with his clothes until he’s naked, and right there, _naked_ , right in front of John, and John’s seen him naked before, of course, plenty of times, but this is different. This is absolutely different. He tries to look at every inch of Sherlock but ends up only staring at Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock tugs it a few times and then… and then puts his hands on John’s sides and rolls him onto his stomach.  
  
Alright.  
  
John turns his head to the side so that he can breathe, but there’s not point. Sherlock grabs his hips and lifts his arse up from the floor so that he ends up on his knees, his forehead pressing against the floor, his shoulders aching, everything in him trembling, because he can’t keep up a position like this, it’s impossible, he’s too fucking gone already, too sore and too aching -  
  
“Ready?” Sherlock asks and pushes his dick into John.  
  
John falls onto his face. Sherlock falls onto him. His dick is barely inside, but it counts, it counts and John wants to laugh and cry and do this again from the beginning. With lube, not butter. But most of all, he wants to live.  
  
Sherlock tries to fuck him but can’t get properly in, not from that angle. He lies on the floor and wishes he could get his hand on his dick. It’s not all bad, though. With every push inside, his dick rubs against the floor. It might get him somewhere. And Sherlock manages to poke at his prostrate a few times. The sensation cuts through the pain, the pain of getting fucked in the arse, and the pain of the virus killing him.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, pushes into him one last time, misses his prostate completely, starts shaking with a groan he always wanted to hear and didn’t know he did, and bites his neck again.  
  
He blacks out.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He’s wrapped in the blanket. Sherlock is on the floor next to him. The box of butter is next to Sherlock. Judging by the way it has melted, John has been gone for a while.  
  
“Sorry,” Sherlock says.  
  
“No apologising,” John says and takes Sherlock’s face in between his hands. Sherlock doesn’t pull back, so he shifts closer. He kisses Sherlock on the mouth, on the chin, and then down Sherlock’s neck until he reaches the point where he feels Sherlock’s heart beating against his mouth. He’s not going to bite. Not that it matters anymore. But he’s not going to. He’s not - - -  
  
It tastes better than anything ever. But in a bitter way.  
  
Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s shoulders. John keeps drinking. He drinks until it’s a little bit too much, and then he licks Sherlock’s throat clean and kisses the wound a few more times.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says and takes John’s cock in his hand. Apparently John’s hard again. He didn’t notice. Must be the blood. Or that he’s pressed against Sherlock’s naked body. Sherlock’s definitely too thin. Once this is over, John’s going to make Sherlock eat more. Proper breakfasts, at least. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  
  
“I love you,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Thanks,” John says. He feels drunk. And he should’ve known that Sherlock would wank the way he does everything else: very efficiently but a little crazily. Doesn’t matter. John likes it. He would probably like anything Sherlock wanted to do to him. Bite him in the neck? Sure. Fuck him in the arse with nothing but butter? Sure. Gladly. Please.  
  
“Please,” Sherlock says.  
  
“I love you, too,” John says and comes in Sherlock’s hand. Oh, god, he’s happy. “Loved you from the first day, you bastard.”  
  
“No, you didn’t.”  
  
He sighs. “No, I didn’t. It took me a while.”  
  
“Too long.”  
  
“No.” He reaches down in between their bodies and touches Sherlock’s cock. It’s limp. Well. He takes it in his hand anyway and keeps it gently. Sherlock doesn’t protest. “We still have time.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says, kisses him on the mouth and bites through his lip.  
  
He laughs. “You’re fucking greedy, I hope you know that.”  
  
“It’s just a snack.”  
  
“How do you think this works? Do you think we could…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You drink from me, I drink from you. Indefinitely.”  
  
Sherlock looks at him. “Not indefinitely.”  
  
“Yeah. But –“  
  
“We’re going to lose ourselves, remember? Rip each other apart.”  
  
“Yeah,” John says. He remembers. He’s read the articles. The virus feeds on the patient’s brain until the patient loses all control. And consciousness. That’s what most researchers agree on. “But –“  
  
“Not indefinitely,” Sherlock says. “But maybe two days. Or three.”  
  
“Two days.”  
  
“Or three.”  
  
“I would’ve loved you much longer,” John says. “I would’ve loved you for a lifetime.”  
  
“You’re getting a lifetime,” Sherlock says and smiles at him, but it’s a sad smile. “Don’t try to outromance me. I’ve read poetry.”  
  
“Oh, have you?”  
  
“Yes. Plenty. Comes with the upbringing.”  
  
“Good for me.”  
  
“Are you hot?”  
  
“Yes. You said so.”  
  
“John –“  
  
“I think the fever’s breaking.”  
  
“How about –“  
  
“My arse? Also hot.”  
  
“ _John_ –“  
  
“I thought you’d agree.”  
  
“I agree,” Sherlock says, “of course I agree, but…”  
  
“It’s fine. The butter’s not an ideal lubricate, though.”  
  
“Next time,” Sherlock says and touches his face, “something else.”  
  
He nods. “Next time.  
  
“And all the times after the next time.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Almost indefinitely.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
There’s not much to do. He changes the bandages around Sherlock’s hand, but the bloody mess is a little too much for him, and he ends up biting Sherlock’s wrist. He feels a little intoxicated afterwards, so he pushes at Sherlock until Sherlock’s lying on his back, and then he settles in between Sherlocks spread thighs and takes Sherlock’s cock in his mouth. It doesn’t taste as good as the blood but that’s alright. And he’s pretty sure no one’s done this for Sherlock before. Sherlock wouldn’t let anyone do this, only John. He realises faintly that Sherlock’s asking if he’s planning to bite it off, and he says ‘no’, only he’s got his mouth full of Sherlock’s cock, so it comes out a little blurred. But Sherlock probably understands him, because he doesn’t push John away. He has his fingers on the back of John’s neck and the tip of his thumb brushes against the first bite wound on John’s throat.  
  
“Do you want me to -,” Sherlock says later, when John has rinsed his mouth with a little bit of blood from Sherlock’s wrist.  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” he says to Sherlock.  
  
“Then I won’t.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I don’t like having weird stuff in my mouth.”  
  
“I understand,” he says. He takes Sherlock’s hand and runs his thumb lightly over the wounds. “This isn’t hygienic.”  
  
“Don’t stop.”  
  
He doesn’t.


	5. Chapter 5

SHERLOCK  
  
  
It takes a long time. Dying. Almost as if the time slows down. Takes ages. He lies next to John on the living room floor. No clothes. Blankets, when they get cold. They get cold when they’re thirsty.  
  
Everything that’s not the living room floor is too far away. The bathroom especially. He crawls to the door, closes it behind him but doesn’t lock it, because what’s the point. There’s blood in his urine. How poetic. He washes his hands and his face and goes to tell John. John’s not surprised either. Looks a little hazy. He asks if John wants to fuck him. John asks what. He says he wants to try. To see what the fuss is about.  
  
He can see what the fuss is about. John has fetched the lube from the upstairs, the idiot, Sherlock told him the butter would be fine. But now he’s kind of glad that John’s an idiot. His idiot. His idiot, who’s slowly fucking him on the sofa, and it hurts in a new and intriguing way that he wants to explore more later. If he has time. Now, John asks him if he’s alright, and he says he is, but he’s not sure. Everything’s too much. Dying takes a long time. He’s going to lose John and he can’t bear knowing it. It’d be easier if this was already over. He has John’s penis inside him and then John’s semen and it feels so personal he’s having trouble breathing. John pulls out and hugs him, he holds John’s face in between his hands, lifts John’s chin up and digs his teeth into the skin over John’s pulse. Then he tells John he loves John. John says he knows.   
  
He should have told John sooner. He might have had more time. He rolls onto his back and John drinks from him and then puts the blanket on them both. He might have had more time with John, but he didn’t, and at least he has this. This moment. He can touch John and pet John’s hair and run his fingers all over John and still taste John in his mouth. It’s everything. It’s everything he could have ever wanted, and it’s happening right now.  
  
And, maybe the most important thing is that John knows Sherlock loves him. John knows. John knows. John knows.


	6. Chapter 6

JOHN  
  
  
  
“Hey?”  
  
Sherlock looks at him. “What?”  
  
“Do you think we’ll know?”  
  
“Know what?”  
  
“When we lose our minds.”  
  
Sherlock blinks at him. They’re on the living room floor. They’ve been here for a while now. Sometimes he thinks they should get up, make breakfast, do the dishes, brush their teeth, go to work, meet people, solve cases, catch criminals, that kind of thing. Then it passes.  
  
“Are you losing your mind?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“I don’t think so. But maybe I wouldn’t know.” But John doesn’t really think that he’s lost his mind yet, no, he thinks that maybe Sherlock has. Sherlock’s told him a thousand times that he loves him. _I love you, John._ Over and over again. As if he can’t stop. As if he doesn’t realise he’s saying it out loud.  
  
Sherlock blinks. “Want to fuck me?”  
  
John shakes his head. “No. Too tired. You’re changing the subject.”  
  
“I don’t want to think about it,” Sherlock says, watching him. “My mind was the only thing that I had. The only good thing.”  
  
“That’s not true.”  
  
“I never knew how to live. Like a person, I mean. Like a normal person.”  
  
“Sherlock –“  
  
“And I don’t mean… normal people are idiots. I don’t want to be an idiot. But I wanted to… to talk to someone sometimes. Go for a walk. Watch television. Complain about things. Order takeaway. Normal things. And I never knew how. Until I met you.”  
  
“Don’t. I’m going to…”  
  
“You saved me.”  
  
John bites his lip, but it’s too late. He’s already crying. “ _You_ saved _me_ , Sherlock.”  
  
“I can’t even cry.”  
  
“You aren’t missing much.”  
  
“Of course I am.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Don’t argue with me when I’m crying.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“And don’t apologise.”  
  
Sherlock smiles at him.  
  
“What do you think it’s going to be like?”  
  
“What?”  
  
He takes a deep breath. “Dying.”  
  
Sherlock looks at him, silent, for a long time. “I think it’s going to be fine.”  
  
“ _Fine?_ ”  
  
“I always thought I’d die alone. Before. That someone would shoot me eventually. Or sink me in the Thames. Something like that. Or maybe I’d overdose. Accidentally, I mean, don’t look at me like that. Or if I somehow managed not to die before growing old, then I would definitely die alone.”  
  
John swallows.  
  
“We’re together. It’s enough. It’s good. It’s going to be good.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Sherlock nods. John takes Sherlock’s hand. He thinks he was going to say something else but can’t remember what that was. It doesn’t matter. He’ll just say it later. He’s not going anywhere.  
  



End file.
